


Demise of Fluffy, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-18
Updated: 2005-03-18
Packaged: 2019-05-30 23:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: While caring for Donna's cat, Josh accidentally kills it.





	Demise of Fluffy, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**The Demise of Fluffy**

**by: Steph**

**Character(s):** Josh, Donna, Sam  
**Category(s):** General/Humor  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** "The West Wing" and its characters do not belong to me. They belong to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, et al. This is just for fun out of a love for the show. No profit is made and no infringement is intended.  
**Summary:** While caring for Donna's cat, Josh accidentally kills it. Told from Josh's POV.   
**Author's Note:** No cats were harmed in the writing of this fanfic :) 

Okay, this isn't happening. I am denying the existence of this occurrence. 

I killed Donna's cat. 

Oh damn, don't give me that look! If *you* give me *that* look, what the hell can I expect from Donna? 

It was an accident. A total accident. 

It could've happened to anyone. It could've happened to you, so you can wipe that self-righteous expression off your face. 

It all started at 10:00 pm on Friday. 

* * * Flashback: 36 hours ago * * * 

Ding dong. 

Oh, who the hell is that? Give me a break. I haven't gotten home from work before 10:00 pm in...wow...in I can't even remember how long. 

Until now, I was sitting in my boxers and ripped Yale t-shirt, enjoying an ice cold beer. I have been engaging in what is commonly referred to as 'channel surfing' for quite some time. 200 freakin' channels and there isn't a damn thing on. I mean, I am seriously considering watching my public access channel. 

Public access, people. 

Have you ever stopped and actually watched one of the programs on those stations? To say they are sad is a gross understatement. 

I have seen the following on my public access channel: a meeting of some sort of witches' coven, a call-in talk show about wrestling with pimple-faced teenagers as the hosts, a sock puppet performance of 'Romeo and Juliet' and, my personal favorite, a rendition of 'Who Let the Dogs Out' performed by two poodles. 

Is it sad that these shows are on and that there are people in this world who have worked hard to produce them? Yes, it is. 

Is it sadder that I have actually seen these shows and comprise half of their audience of about two? Yes...Yes, it is. 

For the record, their other viewer is probably some guy living in his parents' basement and those were his socks performing. 

My social life sucks. I don't know why I am so surprised. When you spend practically every waking moment working, it's hard to meet anyone. And, when I do have time to actually go make a social life, I am way too exhausted to even try. 

I am going to die a lonely man watching crappy television programs. 

So, that's the frame of mind I am in as my doorbell rings. I am feeling grumpy. 

I ease myself out of my recliner and make my way to the door. I fling the door open to reveal my assistant. 

My eyebrows raise in surprise, but I manage a grin. "A half an hour without me too much to bear, huh?" 

She rolls her eyes in response and shoves what seems to be a cat carrier into my arms. "I have to fly to Wisconsin. My Great-aunt Hilda died." 

"Oh, I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. She was a bitch. I'm only going because I'm afraid she'll put a curse on me from beyond the grave if I don't." "A curse?" 

"Yes. She cursed my cousin, Jackie, at age five, because she said that Aunt Hilda was fat. Jackie now lacks self-esteem and dates deadbeats." 

I smirk, "Are you sure your aunt hasn't already cursed you?" 

I am rewarded with a good-natured slap on the arm. I smile and look down at the cat carrier. "So, what's this?" 

"I am going to be gone all weekend, Josh. I need you to take care of Fluffy." 

I am shaking my head. "Uh, no. I don't do cats." 

Okay, that sounded weird and creepy. 

"You don't do any animals, Josh." 

That sounded even weirder and creepier. 

She continues with a grin, "You can't care for living things very well, Josh. As a child, three turtles, two hamsters, an iguana and a pet rock met their demise while in your care." 

I smile, "The passing of the pet rock was especially tragic." 

"You seem to have an inability and unwillingness to care for living things." 

"That's right," I reply. "I care for only one living thing: myself." 

"Yes, I've noticed. And you're not even good at that," she pauses, "Look, if I had time to find someone else, believe me, I would. But I don't, so you're it." 

"What about your roommate?" 

"Moved out last week. Took the other cat, Flopsy, with her." 

I smile. "Good, I hated Flopsy. She always gave me very sinister looks." 

Donna scoffs, "Not that I believe that cats can give looks of any kind, Josh, but that was Fluffy." 

My face falls. "It's this one?" 

"Yup." 

I try to hand her the carrier. "Sorry, no can do." 

She pushes the carrier back into my chest, "You have to do this for me, Josh. How many times have I bailed you out?" 

"Well, you are my assistant. Any bailing out has fallen under your assistant duties." 

"Picking my drunken boss, who has panties around his neck, up off the floor, is not a part of my job description." 

"I hate this cat," I declare. Okay, so it was probably more of a whine, but it was definitely warranted. "He's creepy." 

"He's a cat." 

"A cat with less than pure motives." 

"Yeah, Josh, I'm sure he's planning to rob you blind in the middle of the night." 

"I'm just saying I don't trust him." 

She sighs. I think her patience has worn thin. "All you have to do is feed him, give him fresh water and clean his litter box everyday." 

She hands me a large bag containing all that I need. 

"What about your neighbors? That lady across the hall from you seems very capable." 

"She's ninety-five, blind, deaf and confined to bed, Josh." 

"Picky, picky." I pause and then ask, "And your other neighbors?" 

She shakes her head, "It's 10:00 pm on a Friday. Unlike you and I, they actually have lives." 

I groan, as Donna smiles and gives me what can only be termed a condescending pat on the head. "All you have to do is feed him, give him water and clean his litterbox everyday," she repeats and then adds jokingly, "Oh, and try not to kill him." 

* * * Present Day * * * 

Oops. 

Let me just say in my defense that the first three things I did very well. 

The cat was given food and water everyday whenever he wanted them. 

His litterbox was so much cleaner than my bathroom that I considered using it instead. 

True, the fourth thing proved to be a bit of a challenge. Okay, not so much a challenge as a total, utter failure. 

Who knew it would be so hard to keep a cat alive for a whole weekend? 

* * * Flashback: 35 hours and 51 minutes ago* * * 

I enter my apartment and place the cat carrier down on the floor. I proceed to empty the bag Donna gave me. It includes five cans of soft cat food (three of tuna and two of chicken medley), a bag of dry food, three bowls (one for soft food, one for dry food, and one for water), a small litter box, a bag of litter, two squeezie toys (a mouse and a mangled bird), and two old socks filled with catnip. 

I smile at the catnip. 

Marijuana for cats. 

Give a cat something with catnip in it and they'll keep themselves occupied for hours. They go crazy for the stuff. Cats get high off catnip. I once witnessed Flopsy run around in circles for thirty minutes straight and then collapse in exhaustion after being exposed to it. 

My question is why isn't catnip illegal? Why don't cats have to conform to the same standards as humans do? 

Can you just picture catnip being illegal: There would be all of these good, domesticated cats sneaking out at night and prowling the streets looking for their dealer. They'd walk down an alley, find their dealer and exchange their rhinestone collars for catnip. 

I finish pondering the catnip and then walk over to the cat carrier. I crouch down and look at the cat through the plastic bars. 

He hisses at me. 

I hiss back. 

I loathe this cat. And it's not even entirely due to the sinister looks he always gives me. He has scratched me, bitten me, peed on my leg, and I swear one of his hisses sounded like 'Josh will die' once. 

I sigh, as I undo the latch. He immediately runs out and through my legs. He proceeds to run amok. 

Fluffy jumps from the couch to the recliner, then to the coffee table. My eyes widen in horror, as he knocks my glass of ice cold beer over. 

I am not ashamed to admit that a tear comes to my eye as the beer lands on my rug. I cry not for the rug, but for the beer. I can't stand to see alcohol wasted. 

Fluffy then runs into the kitchen and jumps up on the counter. I can hear a plate crash to the floor. I run into the kitchen to capture the mongrel, but he eludes me. He scampers down the hall and into the bathroom. I follow after him and then slam the door closed behind him. 

Ha! Now he's my prisoner. 

I talk to him through the door, "I'll let you out when you think you can behave." 

Yeah, I'm sure he's considering his actions right now. 

I walk to the kitchen and fill one bowl with water and one with dry food. I return to the door and get down on my knees. After three attempts at pushing the bowls under the door, I give up. I slowly turn the doorknob and open up the door only enough to fit the bowls through. 

I notice something, however, as I listen carefully and look around. He's nowhere in sight and it's very quiet. 

Too quiet. 

I'm just about to enter the bathroom, when I see an airborne cat hurling himself at my head. Apparently, he had perched himself on my counter, at a spot where I couldn't see him, and had waited until the perfect moment. Then he pounced. 

The cat lands on my head, his claws digging into my scalp. I shriek (like a girl, I admit) and immediately jump to my feet. I then proceed to run around in circles, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth. 

Unfortunately, this cat's got a grip like Hercules. Finally, after what seems like hours of running, shrieking, hair (mine) flying every which way, and a brief prayer to God that I will be an honest man if he ends this, the cat apparently tires of torturing me and simply jumps off my head. 

I collapse to the ground and begin to whimper. 

(Note to God: I'm a politician, I lie a lot.) 

After recovering from my ordeal and coming to terms with the fact that I now have considerably less hair than I did before, my eyes land on the cat. 

I've decided to call him Satan's Minion. I hope nobody has a problem with that. 

I follow Satan's Minion down the hall and watch as he stops at my bedroom door. He glances back at me, offers me a devilish (yeah, that's right) look and then enters my bedroom. I walk to my doorway and am just about to enter the room, when the door slams in my face. 

My eye widen in shock. 

How the hell did he do that? 

Ah yes, he's one of Satan's minions. He has the help of the Dark One. He has the strength of ten men. 

Okay, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched, but I'm at a loss. How does a eight pound fleebag slam a solid oak door closed that was wide open? 

I'm back to the Satan's minion explanation. 

I drop my head and walk to the living room. The truth is, and I am ashamed to admit this, but I am now terrified of this cat. I fear that he will somehow open my bedroom door and scratch my eyes out as I sleep. 

Therefore, I have done something drastic: I've locked myself in my hall closet and assumed the fetal position. 

* * * * 

It's morning by the time I venture out of my hall closet. That wasn't the best night's sleep I've ever had. It's a little crowded in here. I'm not the neatest person who's ever walked the planet. 

I slept amidst hangers, clothes, shoes, and, curiously, a banana and bologna sandwich. I was hungry, so I examined the banana and bologna sandwich to determine if they were still edible. (Note: Still edible to me means less than two weeks old and no more than a quarter of it, if applicable, covered with mold.) Half of the sandwich was covered in mold, so I opted for the banana. A strange smell also disrupted my beauty rest. It was combination of stinky shoes, bananas and a moldy bologna sandwich. 

Anyway, I finally emerge from the closet this morning. I tiptoe down the hall towards my bedroom and am astonished to find the door wide open. 

What the hell?! 

Okay, this cat is seriously freaking me out. I mean, now he can turn doorknobs? 

I run a hand through my hair and emit a loud moan. 

I walk to my bathroom to shower and then change. 

A half an hour later, I'm in a much better mood. I've decided that I no longer care about the cat. I don't care where he is. I don't care if he eats or drinks. I don't care. I've left him food and water, I've done my job. Now, he can fend for himself. I cannot wait until Donna comes home tomorrow night. 

I proceed to go about my day. I go into the kitchen and fix myself a proper breakfast. After eating, I call Sam up. 

"Hey, buddy, you want to come over to my place and watch my Mets kick your Giants asses this afternoon?" 

Sam smiles, "Sure, I'll be over at 1." 

I hang up the phone and continue to go about my day, without a care in the world. Carefree. Free as a bird. 

I fear not the cat, I care not about the cat. 

I pass the time by 'tidying' my place. By tidying I mean moving my dirty clothes from the couch to the floor and putting the cap back on my toothpaste. 

The phone rings just as I'm about to go relax on the couch and watch some television. I pick up on the second ring. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Josh." 

I narrow my eyes and say coldly, "Donnatella." 

She senses something is wrong, "What did you do?" 

"What did *I* do? Your cat has nearly ruined my life." 

Okay, so that was a little melodramatic and...well...entirely untrue. But I have to lay it on thick if I want any pity. 

"Josh, stop being so dramatic. I am sure the cat has been no trouble at all." 

"No trouble at all? He knocked over my beer, Donna." 

"Oh, heavens, how tragic." 

"Fine, mock me. But there are men in this world who have no beer. Think about them." 

"Yes, Josh, and for just 75 cents a day you can sponsor a beerless man and give him the alcohol he so desperately needs." 

"I'm hanging up now." 

"Okay, okay. Tell me what else he did." 

"He broke one of my plates. He attacked me. I'm talking, a scene from "The Birds", only with a cat. He then slammed my door shut! A cat slammed my door shut! What the hell do you feed that thing? Or, as I suspect, is he one of Satan's minions?" 

I can hear Donna burst into laughter. She doesn't even attempt to disguise it. That's a tad insulting. 

"Donna!" I yell. 

She finally recovers long enough to say, "I'm sorry, Josh, but you act like you're being terrorized by a cat. This isn't some really bad horror movie." 

"Fine, don't believe me. Just pick Beelzebub up promptly at 8:00 pm tomorrow night." 

"Ah, he's been promoted from one of Satan's minions to the devil himself. Impressive." 

"Good-bye," I grumble into the phone and slam it down. 

I continue to mutter beneath my breath as I go over to the couch and flop down on it. 

I spend the rest of the time until Sam arrives watching the public access channel. What can I say? Some habits are hard to break. 

At precisely 1:00 pm my doorbell rings. I walk to the door and shake my head at my best friend. "Annoyingly prompt as always, Sam." 

Sam smiles, as he walks past me and surveys my apartment, "Disgustingly sloppy as always, Josh." 

"Welcome to my humble abode," I say with a flourish of my hand, as I close the door. 

Sam makes himself comfortable on the couch, as I head to kitchen. "Beer?" 

"Yeah, thanks." 

I go over to the refrigerator and remove two beers from it. I enter back into the living room and hand Sam his beer. 

He points to the cat carrier, as I settle into my recliner. "What's that about?" 

I roll my eyes. "I'm taking care of Donna's cat this weekend. She had to go to her Great-aunt's funeral in Wisconsin." 

"And she asked *you* to take care of him?" 

I feign a smile, "Yes, me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of a cat for a couple of days, Sam." 

"You killed a pet rock, Josh. I didn't even think that was possible." 

"It was smashed to pieces. I don't see how that could be my fault." 

"You hit it with a hammer!" 

I smile and then shrug, as I lean back and pull the handle on the side of the recliner so that the leg rest pops up. "Well, I have nothing to do with the cat now. He's on his own. I don't care about him. I haven't even seen him all day." 

Sam nods and then says, "Got any chips?" 

I bob my head and use my feet to slam the leg rest back in place. 

Strange. That seemed a bit harder to do than usual. 

And what was that little shriek I heard? 

I look over at Sam, whose face has gone white. 

Oh. My. God. 

This is not happening. 

I shake my head at him, "It wasn't-..." 

He interrupts me by nodding furiously and pointing to a little bit of white fur sticking out from under the recliner. "It was." 

I jump up from the recliner and begin to panic. This can't be happening. No God could be this cruel! Please, don't let this be happening. 

I look over at Sam, "Do you think he's dead?" 

He shrugs, "I don't know." 

"Go check." 

"Me?! Why do I have to do it?" 

"Because I may have just killed my assistant's cat! I'm in a fragile place right now!" 

"I'm not doing it," Sam says with a firm shake of his head. 

I study Sam for a moment, realizing that I need to appeal to his weakness: the fact that he is one of the nicest, most sensitive men you could ever meet. 

"Sam, if he's not dead then we have to bring him to the vet. He needs help. If he is dead, than he deserves a proper burial." 

Sam looks at me with a certain amount of contempt and then mutters softly, "Damn". He pauses and then adds, "That was cheap, Josh. That was cheap even for you." 

I shrug. A man's got to do what a man's got to do. 

Sam walks over to the recliner and carefully lifts the leg rest up. He looks quickly and then slams it closed again. He looks at me solemnly, "He's dead." 

I run a hand through my hair and shake my head. 

I am so incredibly screwed right now. 

* * * Present Day * * * 

And that's where you guys came in. 

A half an hour after the death, the animal hospital came to remove the body of the cat and I gave them my permission to bury it in their pet cemetery. 

I spent the rest of that day denying that anything had happened. Sam stayed with me, repeatedly reminding me of the incident. 

It is now 10:00 am on Sunday and Donna is expected here in 10 hours. I have now accepted the fact that I killed Donna's cat and decided that I need a plan. 

First, Sam helps me carry my recliner outside and place it on the curb. That object, which once held so many happy memories, only reminds me of how incredibly screwed I am right now. 

Don't get me wrong, I am not entirely selfish. I feel really bad about Fluffy dying. 

But I must carry on and try to save my own ass. 

I look at Sam, "We have to go to the pet store." 

"Josh, no." 

"Sam, I am not telling Donna that I killed her cat in a freak recliner accident." 

"Why? That's what happened. I witnessed it." 

"I know, but she'll never believe that. I just finished telling her how much I hate the thing." 

"So, maybe you subconsciously-..." 

"Sam!" 

"I'm just saying-..." 

"Don't just say. That's the kind of help that's going to do me in." 

"Do me in? When did this turn into a Western movie?" 

I ignore him and begin to walk down the street. "I'm going to the pet store. Come, don't come, it's entirely up to you." 

I can hear him sigh in defeat and then break into a jog to catch up with me. He joins me at my side. "Fine, I'll go with you. But I'd just like to say that I am totally opposed to this. It goes against all of my morals and values. It violates the common decency that we, as a society, should-..." 

I roll my eyes, cutting him off, "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're not for it." 

Sam snaps his mouth shut and remains silent the rest of the way to the store. 

We enter the store and head towards the cat section. To my dismay, there are only two cats left. One is a humongous orange and white striped cat. It could never pass as Fluffy. He had long white hair and weighed about half as much. 

The other was a black cat who looked to be about the same size as Fluffy. 

Sam looks at me, "Well, let's go. None of these cats could pass for Fluffy." 

I shake my head, "Not so fast. That black one could work." 

Sam's eyes widen. "I know you're not the most observant guy in the world, Josh, but Fluffy was white." 

"I know." 

"So?" 

"Have you ever seen the movie 'Meet the Parents', Sam?" 

"No." 

"Well, you should, it's really very good. Anyway, in that movie Ben Stiller's character loses his fiancees' family cat. He finds a cat that is identical except for a slightly different tail. So, he sprays the cat's tail to resemble that of the lost one." 

Sam's eyes nearly fall out of his head. "You're not suggesting that we...Josh, this cat is entirely black. We couldn't possibly spray paint a cat all white." 

Josh nods, "No, of course not." 

"Oh, thank God." 

"I'm going to pour flour all over it." 

"What?!" 

"Flour. You know, used in the making of bread and-..." 

"I know what flour is!" 

"So then why did you ask?" 

"I was expressing shock at the fact that you plan to flour a cat. It won't work, Josh." 

"Well, we're going to find out. This cat's got long hair, Sam. It should hold the flour well." 

At this point, Sam grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. "Josh, you've lost it. I can't allow you to do this." 

I drop my head. He's right. I've gone insane. How could I have thought that would work?" 

"You're right," I agree. 

He sighs in relief, "Thank God. Now let's go home and prepare a speech for you to give Donna as an explanation." 

"No, we're going to another pet store." 

"Josh!" I hear him exclaim, as I walk past him and head out the door. 

The next store is only a few blocks away and I make it there in record time. Sam catches up to me, huffing and puffing. 

"You can't do this." 

"I can and I will." 

"Why can't you just tell Donna the truth?" 

"Because she will hate me forever, Sam! I'll lose my assistant and friend." 

"She'll understand." 

I shake my head and step towards the door, but Sam moves to block my path. 

"I kindly ask that you step aside, Sam." 

"I won't let you do this." 

I sigh and then smile as an idea hits me. I turn to my right and point down the block, "Hey, is Tootie from 'The Facts of Life'?" 

"Where?" Sam says excitedly, as he steps forward and whips his head in that direction. 

I take this opportunity to maneuver past him and enter the store. I hear him scream, "Damn!", before he follows me inside. 

I hurry to the cat section at the back of the store and survey my options. 

Aha! They have one that looks like Fluffy! He's about the same size and color. 

I gesture to one of the employees, as Sam shoots me disapproving looks. "I'll take that one." 

"Yes, sir," she says. 

She removes the cat from his cage and proceeds to prepare it to go. I pay the cashier and then receive instructions on proper care and recommendations for food, litter and health care. 

I nod, as we leave the store with the cat. 

Sam is silent for quite some time, until he finally says, "You're going to hell for this, you know." 

"Sam, if this is the worst thing I do in the course of my life, then I'll consider myself a pretty decent human being." 

"Satan's playground. That's where you're going." 

* * * * 

It's been 26 hours since Fluffy met his demise. 

Fluffy Part Deux, as I've taken to calling her, is doing just fine. We've known each other for a few hours now and we're getting along well. And she's a much better roommate. 

We've actually been bonding. We watched a production of 'CATS' this afternoon on PBS. We both agreed that the cats were not realistic interpretations. 

At 5:00 pm, the phone rings. I go to answer it. 

"Hello?" 

"Hi, Josh." 

I swallow hard. "Hi, Donna. Um, how's it going?" 

"Everything's fine. I'm on my way home. I should be there around 8:00 pm, just as you requested." 

"Oh, no rush, take your time." 

"What? Yesterday, you couldn't wait to get rid of him. Now you're completely content? What happened?" 

"Uh...we...Uh...We reached an understanding. He promised to stop leaving the toilet seat up if I promised to stop licking myself." 

"Very funny. Now try the truth." 

"Nothing happened, Donna. We've been staying out of each other's way, that's all." 

Wow, I've really become good at this lying thing. I almost believe me. 

There's still a hint of suspicion in her voice, as she replies, "Okay, fine. I'll see you in a little while." 

"Okay." 

"Oh and Josh?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks." 

"Yeah," I say softly and then hang up. 

Damn, why did she have to sound so appreciative. I'd very nearly suppressed all guilty feelings until then. 

Oh well, that's okay. It's passed. 

* * * * 

3 hours later, my doorbell rings. I take a deep breath and go to answer it. Donna smiles back at me. 

"Hi, Josh." 

"Hi...Uh, come in." 

She walks past me and immediately goes over to the couch to pick up Fluffy. 

"How's my boy?" she says. 

I stand across from her uncomfortably, as she cradles the cat in her arms. 

My heart skips a beat, however, when she looks down at him and says, "Now what's this?" 

Oh no. Oh God. Please, don't let her figure it out. 

I look over at her and am relieved to find that she is admiring the ribbon I tied around his neck. (What? Male cats can't look a little fancy, too?) 

She looks up at me, "You put this on him?" 

"Well, he has a date with a wild Persian down the hall tonight. He wanted to look his best." 

Donna smiles and says softly, "That was sweet." 

There it is again. That pang. 

What is it called again? 

Yes, that's right. 

Guilt. 

Donna begins to move around the room, gathering the cat's belongings. I help her and then walk her to the door. 

She smiles again, "Thanks so much for doing this, Josh. I know you didn't want to. I really appreciate it." 

"It was my pleasure. If you ever need someone to take care of Fluffy again feel free to...call someone else," I finish with a grin. 

Donna laughs and nods. She then bids me good-bye and disappears down the hall. 

I let out a sigh of relief, as a lean against my door. 

I did it. I fooled her. She'll never know. Everybody wins. 

Donna is spared pain and I, in turn, am spared pain. 

I am da man. 

* * * Three weeks later * * * 

There is a banging at my door. A loud, violent banging. 

It's 3:00 am and I have to force my eyes open. I try to rub the sleep out of them to no avail. 

I slowly get out of bed and head to my door. I stop dead in my tracks, two feet away from the door. 

"Open the door, Josh! I know you're in there," Donna screams. 

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. 

I freeze and try to remain perfectly still. 

"Open up! I know what you did, Joshua!" 

How could she possibly know? 

Sam! 

That dirty rat. Is a pinky swear no longer sacred? 

"Did you think I wouldn't notice that my male cat is now female?!" 

My mouth drops open. 

What?! 

You've got to be kidding me. 

"It was kind of a dead giveaway when she went into labor two hours ago!" 

Damn! 

This keeps getting worse and worse. I knew it was too good to be true. 

"Open the damn door, Josh!" 

Okay, so what I decided to do next probably wasn't the best of choices, but I panicked. "No habla ingles!" 

I can hear her snicker and her voice drops to an eerily calm tone, "Fine, don't open the door. I'll just leave this gift outside your door. You know, as a thank you." 

I raise my eyebrows at that. Hm, maybe she's come around. Maybe she's glad that she now has a whole littler of kittens to keep her company. 

I wonder what she got me. 

A Piazza jersey maybe? That DVD set of 'Clarissa Explains It All?' (Don't laugh. Clarissa was very wise. I learned a lot from her.) Oh! Maybe it's that combination radio/tv/cd player I saw a couple of months ago. 

The suspense is killing me! 

I throw the door open and drop my gaze to the floor. 

Oh. My. God. 

She wouldn't. She didn't. 

Sitting at my feet in a basket, are six white kittens. 

She would. She did. 

I am so totally screwed. 

THE END 


End file.
